one easter morrow
by wildtulipan
Summary: Easter is done and Jack wants to spend some quality time with Bunny... if only the Pooka would get on the same page as him.


author's note: greetings! this is the first fic i've ever shown to more than one or two people, so i hope it's entertaining. written for a prompt on easter and promptly forgotten until now... enjoy!

* * *

Over the past month you tried your best to avoid the Warren as the holiday drew near and Bunny dove into more work, work, work. You had given him peace and quiet and only normal dustings of snow on spring lawns. Okay, there may have been one or two freak snow storms, but who doesn't like a refreshing surprise on a twinkling April midnight? The blanket you called down from the clouds and Wind had been thick and beautiful. The ruddy red in the children's faces the next brought back to mind the constant fun of the bright, white dead of winter and made you laugh as you slicked ice down the well-worn grooves of sledding hills with a long sweep of your staff.

The few times you did peek into the Warren you did so quietly, floating silently in on warm currents to perch in one of the mossy green nooks of an ancient looking outcrop laced with indecipherable patterns. He knew you were there, of course, since he had to open up the tunnels for you. But you'd learned very early on that interrupting a busy Bunnymund this close to a deadline equaled a grumbling earful. That or a speedy recruitment to egg herding and dye dipping duties, and _then_ the grumbling earful. Neither were very desirable outcomes. Those bumbling eggs were a lot harder to navigate than it looked. Instead you roosted - settled into the lethargy of the warmer climate, adjusted to the luscious colors that assaulted your snow-washed sensibilities, hunkered down, and watched.

You enjoy watching the Guardian work from your perch. Seeing the ease with which his paws grasped thinly-handled brushes to deftly paint swirling patterns and wild, pale splashes of color filled you with as much awe as witnessing the way North's hefty hands could chisel sparkling blocks of ice into all manner of intricate wonderments. Your frost patterns sprung forth naturally, organically, and needed little willful aid on your part. Bunny and North's talents were hewn out of old hobbies and tons of practice. Their creations were born from ages of inspiration and constant innovation. You'd seen it in the Pooka's own endless pursuit of new colors and flora, in the bustle of noise and yeti in the Worskshop. You knew that all of this unseen effort went into these seemingly easy displays of creation you see today, and it never failed to leave you feeling a little... What? Lacking? Unimpressive?

Lacking wasn't exactly a new feeling for you. You knew that word far more intimately than you cared to indulge at that moment – at any moment, really, thank you very much. It plagued you as soon as you broke through that frozen pond, haunted every nonanswer from Man in Moon, wracked through you like every nonbeliever did when they phased through your body. The thought that maybe you weren't enough chased you year after year of wondering and wandering in those early centuries and flared up again when the mantle of a Guardian was put onto your shoulders. …Unimpressive was something you could grapple with, because the things you could do were surely anything but.

So what if they had their talents? You had _your_ talents. Maybe your talents weren't as crafted as the other Guardians, but you were a sprite of a different kind. You did your bidding out in nature. You drew yourself from Wind and winter, refreshed yourself with cold and snow and fun. You called down flurries with a whoop and shook diamond dust from your fingers. You brought snow days and snowball fights, snowmen and sturdy ponds. You laughed mischief and a little danger too, but mostly fun. You went toe to toe with the Nightmare King and now you protected the lights of children around the world, though few yet alight with belief in you, you can't help but think with a pang. You've been doing this for three hundred excruciatingly long, dreadfully young centuries. You were Jack Frost.

**xxxx**

Sometimes you help him paint.

It's a challenging affair for the both of you and more often than not you end up idly frosting the rambunctious eggs instead of painting them. Paintbrushes feel foreign in your fingers, as do the other small tools he thrusts into your hand, carefully instructing you how to mix, how to taper, how to dip. How long to rest, layer, rest, layer again. It all sounds like a bunch of rules, rules, rules. But at the end of the day you tuck a paintbrush behind your ear and brandish two finished eggs at Bunny: One cool and pale-hued, almost naked still, with barely visible tendrils of swirls and frantic curly qs; the other dark and dully sparkly with webby veins of pure white. Bunny probably knows that you cheated and used your frost, but he looks impressed all the same.

"Good onya, Jackie." He says before turning you around to clean up your mess. Something about the simple praise makes you squirm.

**xxxx**

Sometimes painting is too unappealing and watching just isn't enough and when you're bored and impatient you and Bunny clash like oil on water, skimming and refracting but never quite able to meld together. Your left foot is dipped in colorful swirls and bright specks of glitter stick to your fingers as stubbornly as the common cold. Bunnymund looks pissed off and a twitch away from kicking you out of the Warren altogether. You decide to beat him to the punch. You let your staff slam to the ground, waving out a patch of white frost that Bunny growls at.

"You know me. I'm Jack Frost, I make a mess everywhere I go." You say, laughingly, scathingly, and instantly hope that he doesn't notice the self-deprecation on your breath.

Bunny's response isn't immediate. His pause drains your anger and sends a shock of dread pooling to your stomach instead because, oh God, he definitely noticed. He noticed and now that he was more aware of your past life, of just what kind of thoughts you took refuge in during your long decades spent alone, his words seem to hold an absurd amount of power over you. Not quite as crushing as North's endless concern or Sandy's silent generosity, but there. It is as if you allowed a hook to grasp onto something in your chest and even though it wasn't much, just a toe in the door, a foothold, someone could come along and give it a good yank and send everything you assembled tilting dangerously askew. It feels like one strong doubt, one more sharp comment like the one on that fateful ruined Easter day, like those uttered in that shadowy, yawning cavern beneath an old bed frame, could splinter something precious in you that you had kept bundled up in your heart until Bunny and the others had eased in and made his home one door down under the same roof. You're left feeling a sort of terrible anticipation at the Pooka's impending reaction that urgently makes you either want to smack yourself, or fling a snowball at the other Guardian's face and leap up into the Wind. You're actually thinking about doing the latter before beating a hasty escape. The prospect churns up dredges of felicity in you despite all the roiling anticipation that has you frozen to the spot. But it's too late. Bunny opens his mouth and you're sent awash with another dose of dread. "…You ever hear of the Tersonia cyathiflora?"

"The _what_?" You ask, a little too sharply.

"The Button Creeper, part of the Gyrostemonaceae family. Grows out in Western 'Straya. 'Fire ephemerals'."

He probably sees your tight, clueless expression because he cuts out the technical stuff.

"Point is that there's a type of flora that will only germinate, grow, and bloom when the ground beneath it is all burned up or disturbed. Most other species can't grow in those same conditions, of course, so at first glance when you see a scorched up bit of earth you want to point at the flames and yell 'you botched this up'. But, if you wait a while, and sow the right seeds, life will grow back again. You don't look at winter and say it messed up autumn. Or that spring makes a mess of winter. You can't deny that winter sows some of the seeds, some of the anticipation, of new beginnings with every blank canvas of snow, and every blade of grass unlocked after it all melts away."

You blink. You stare. You wonder where this is coming from. Bunny isn't usually this emotive, right? It was strange. Uncharacteristic. A part of you reels at the easy, effortless way he injects hope into your very existence. You're used to Bunny's bluntness and stubborness, even his gruff concern, but not this pure, attentive belief ringing straight out from his centre. You don't _want_ to believe it, and then you find it absurd that you can't accept Bunny's genuine affirmation when Pitch's singular accusation sticks so firmly to in your mind, that sickening thought that flares up every errant time you think _you're not made for this_. You don't notice the way you've curled forward and pulled your staff closer to your chest, leaning your forehead against the twisted wood with ice as white as your knuckles sparking across its grooves. You're not sure if you're smiling or grimacing but your face is tight with tension. He'd tied you to him, too, as naturally as one season licks on the heels of another, and you think that's what shakes you the most.

You feel a paw bump against your jaw and you don't need to hear a 'chin up' to get the message.

You swallow, and try to sound light instead of drained. "Well, thanks for that, I guess, even though I think you just compared me to destructive forest fires."

"You're a larrikin, alright, but that doesn't mean you're bad."

"This must be the post-Easter bliss talking." You accuse, overwhelmed by the feelings swimming in you.

"This is me talkin', Frostbite, take it or leave it." He still looks altogether too serious for your liking. More than a little frustrated too. You kind of wish that this conversation would end and put you out of this misery of receiving it. You're still not used to this consideration. You're out of your depth. It feels like it could swallow you up. At the same time you can't help but want more of it. To be awash with it.

"I'll take it," You say quickly, fingers drumming a quick staccato against your staff. "So can we talk about something else? Like how I-"

Bunny notices the less than smooth transition but seems satisfied enough to let it go.

**xxxx**

When Easter finally rolls around you can't help but to see a little of it. You're leaning in the crook of a branch, legs kicking at air, watching Bunny crouching behind a bush trying to clandestinely watch a gaggle of children scampering around with baskets loaded with painted eggs swinging from their hands. Bunny doesn't notice one little girl with puffy hair buttoned up in barrettes like peas in a pod bounce over to peer beneath a nearby bush. She reaches under the brush and comes out with a grubby hand and a brown speckled yellow egg. She holds it up triumphantly only to have the prize flop to the ground with a thud when she catches sight of two massive, twitching blue ears. Her mouth forms an astonished 'o' and her arm traces a perfect arc as it swings down, points at the Guardian of Hope, and she screeches "Easter Bunny!"

Even this high up you can hear Bunny's surprised cry of "Jesus christ" and you muffle a guffaw by pressing your lips together hard. Old as dust Master of several martial arts? Meet tenacious child. The girl stamps her feet and shouts for the Easter Bunny again, who looks at a hilarious loss at how to mollify the commotion. Eventually he sidles closer to the girl, while staying as concealed as possible behind the shrubbery, and beckons her over with an attentive crouch and a few words you don't quite catch. You see him pluck a colorful splash of an egg from his bandolier and you sniff. Of course he came prepared. He probably kept a stash of "googies" to bribe away any particularly adventurous kids who happened to spot him. The girl unsurprisingly takes the egg with great joy and examines the pattern with a crinkle of the brows. The adult look of concentration on her face plucks at your curiosity. You fight the sudden urge to drop down and take a look at it yourself. You wonder if Bunny paid special attention to these eggs. Sprinkled them with new colors and designs to pay homage those few inquisitive and believing children who stumbled upon the Easter Bunny during their hunts. Unfortunately, the egg is gently placed into a cushioned basket before you can pick out any details on the thin shell. She doesn't seem eager to go, though, and you wouldn't put it above Bunny not to have the heart to send her away just like that.

You decide to forgo your sterling naughty streak in order to lend a helping hand. You hop down from the branch and land nimbly. You creep close enough to maximize accuracy. Then you lift a hand and conjure up a perfectly round snowball. After hefting it in your hand a few times, you aim it for the sweet spot right between Bunny's shoulder blades, perform an obligatory arm-back-tongue-poking-out-of-mouth pose of preparation, and then you let the snowball leap and arch from your fingertips to land exactly on target. You expect a yelp, or at least a startled shake, but besides the natural momentum of the snow jolting him slightly forward, the Pooka makes no surprised reaction. You're a little disappointed. This is unacceptable. You have to do it again, maybe with a special snowflake blown into the mix. But before you can get another one going Bunny slowly swivels about, big back paws turning on dimes, to face you. And, to your utter astonishment, instead of only one face rotating to meet your own you see two. The little girl is staring at you too. Your chest squeezes almost painfully with how much she is looking at you, not through you, but straight _at_ you! The shine of discovery glistens in her eyes and you step forward impulsively, words tumbling from your mouth before you can stop them. "You can see-"

"Jack Frost!" She cries out, pointing again.

"Yes! I'm Jack Frost!" You punch the air and stamp the earth in near impression of her earlier dance. A chill weaves its way into the air and when you spin thin slivers of ice shimmer into existence. The girl looks absolutely thrilled at the sudden mist of her breath, and Bunny just _looks_, but you can't mind him. You can't mind him at all. You just met your 34th believer and you swear you can feel her little hearth of belief flare up somewhere inside you beside the others. It's an incredible feeling that makes you grin and dig your toes into the grass.

"Is it gonna snow?" The girl asks, looking in amazement at the frost spiraling out from your toes. From an outside gaze it probably looked as if a small winter was brewing around the three of them, throwing about cold breezes and sparkling diamond dust. You suddenly want to make it snow just for her, just because you can, but Bunnymund quickly steps up while throwing you a look. He crouches next to the girl and she takes delight again, reaching up to pat his nose. You feel a burst of laughter at the sight of the rough Guardian being patted like a good dog but manage to snuff your amusement down to an ugly snort. His ears flatten in your direction but he otherwise ignores you.

"There's no snow today. Don'tcha want to keep on looking for my googies with your friends? Go on and show them the beaut that you found."

"Okay…" She says quietly, obviously wanting more to stay with the giant Easter Bunny than return to digging around in bushes and brambles. Once you both wave little girl off and gaze just a moment longer at your new believer, you both wander to a more secluded area of the grove.

Bunny looks more satisfied than he has been in months. His ears are high and twitching, whiskers quivering. You laugh and twirl on a spring breeze, lifting up and landing metres away on nimble toes.

"Race ya," You call out, all impish grin and energy, glowing with the same happiness that seems to radiate off of Bunny and sink into your own skin.

Bunny's foot hovers over the spot he was about to thump, and you know by the smirk creeping onto his face that this time it is an offer he won't refuse. "I toldja before, mate. You don't want to race a rabbit." His foot comes crashing down and a gaping maw opens up. You both go bounding down the rabbit hole.

"Hey!" You yell. Bunny tears ahead of you while you're busy shaking up whatever Wind you can manage to ride. _No way no how, cottontail._

You burst off on a gush of Wind and can't help a whoop at the acceleration, the speed whipping through your hair. The gap between you and Bunny lessens but he's still bounds ahead of you, leaping an admirable distance with each huge stride. His slim torso twists and turns as he rebounds off the slopes of the walls as if it were the easiest thing in the world to do. You huff. He definitely had the advantage of mobility and familiarity. You're sure that if you tried a stunt like that at these speeds you'd take a nasty spill.

The tunnel is green all over with moss and bunches of flowers, spidery roots tugging at your hoodie as you twist between them. You try your hardest to follow the maze of a tunnel, careful not to take a wrong turn for fear of ending up in the middle of the Amazon. You realize that you're stuck following Bunny just to know where you're going. You've taken tunnels down to the Warren before but they all look the same to you, just long green tubes. At this rate you'll end up losing for sure. So you concentrate hard on the meager, warm currents wafting through the space, pluck one down and urge it forward. Steadily you come closer and closer until you eventually overtake Bunny on a turn, throwing him slightly off balance as you turn around to give his ear a victorious tweak when you pass him by.

"Eyes on the road, Frostbite! It gets tricky up ahead!"

"Bring it on!" You call back. Oh, you have this one in the bag… And then you right yourself just in time to swerve out of the way of a rock jutting from the ground, making the path split and rejoin a second later. Well, that was a close one. It was wilder here than you thought it could be. Not the springy cushion you slid down a dozen times before, spinning sine curves all the way through. Rocks and outcroppings popped up unrepentantly and you, more used to open skies and simple city plans than tough terrain, only nearly avoid them all. The butt of your staff clips on a gnarled root, throwing you off-kilter. You yank it safely away. The motion sends you swerving to the left just as the tunnel takes a sharp turn to the right. You backpedal almost comically in midair and the Wind cuts cleanly off around you, leaving you lurching forward in an eerie vacuum of silence. Your feet seek the earth but you can't drop down in time. You grimace and watch the rock wall speed toward your face in what you know will be a very painful collision when a blur of steely blue and gray flashes in your peripheral. Your eyes slam shut just as you slam into Bunny. Everything is a jumble of fur and limbs and rocks poking into uncomfortable places.

That's how you and Bunny end up tumbling out of a twisting tunnel and rolling onto the springy grass of the Warren. You tumble ears over tail and despite the pain of bumping elbows you find yourself laughing, laughing at Bunny's intermittent complaints and curses, laughing at the dizziness lapping at your temples. The sound of your voice rings loudly even to your own ears. By the time you both skid to a stop your knees are green with chlorophyll and you're breathless with seemingly never-ending giggles. You don't know what you were expecting to result from a particularly successful Easter Sunday, but it definitely wasn't a face full of fur and grass.

"'M glad you enjoyed that so much, ya gumby. What part of taking the turns slowly didn't get through that bloody head of yours?" He reprimands you but his whiskers tickle against your cheek and you burst into a fit of huffing giggles again, just shaky exhalations that tremble off your shoulders. Bunny looks at you as if you're crazy.

When the world stops spinning and you're able to piece together a sentence again you say. "The part that's the winner."

"I hope that part of you twisted its ankle."

"I won by a hair and you know it." You say, plucking a loose curl from Bunny's ruff. You thrust it into his face twirl it between thumb and forefinger for emphasis. Bunny just grunts hard enough to send the hair wafting from your fingers. You taste victory. "Don't be grumpy, bun-bun. You win some, you lose some."

"Oh, come off it." He finally says, but there's still a cheerfulness in his voice that's stuck even through all the tumbling and you're glad for it. It feels like you've caught the clumsy cousin of a runner's high. He shifts onto his back and instead of rolling away you boldly follow the momentum, swinging a leg up and over his torso. When he doesn't complain about your decision or your temperature, you slowly ease all of your weight down. He shifts a little to accommodate but doesn't shove you off. When he stops moving, you relax and mold yourself to him. The soft, unbroken strip of warmth against your chest makes you dig your toes into the grass and sigh. You can feel the exertion of the race still thrumming through Bunny's body. His chest vibrates so quickly that it reminds you of a purr. His chin comes down to rest on the top of your head, folding you up in the smell of earth, paints, and clean, spring air. You bring your hands up to his shoulders and turn your head to the side, nuzzling against his chest. The thrum of a beating heart thumps into your ear and you feel grounded in a wonderful way. "I could totally get used to this," You say half to yourself. And then one of Bunny's arms comes up to wrap around your middle. Warmth encircles you from all angles and you're suddenly breathless in an entirely different way. You could _really_ get used to this.

_Jack, no_, you think to yourself. _Bad Jack, back up._ Your mind crashes forward instead. It had been such a long time since you and Bunny had spent any real time together. You knew he was a workaholic right from the start, of course. He took that title to a whole new level. All of his attention went to painting, decorating, and crunching on a time schedule. Little of it was spared for you, or anything else outside of the Warren. Now that it was all over and you were cuddled up to him the knowledge of just how long it's been since he's touched you, _really_ touched you, blares at the forefront of your mind. To distract yourself you untuck yourself from beneath his chin lean up.

"Did you take that last turn on purpose so I would run into you?"

Bunny's nose scrunches up as if admitting a particularly grueling point. "I didn't much want to see you brain yourself back there."

"Aw. You know I would've taken you down with me anyway, right?" He laughs at that. A real laugh that makes his chest rise and fall and you with it. The sound shimmers into you. You grin. "I guess I did end up doing that either way. I hit you pretty hard."

"No harm done."

He rolls to the side and you're dumped unceremoniously off into the springy grass. You go with the momentum and continue to tumble, coming to a rest on your stomach with your chin perched on both palms. Your legs swing in the air as you watch him go. It's only after he ventures completely out of sight that you get up and search.

**xxxx**

At first you thought the fur would offer a problem. You were – or had been – human, after all, and the thought of skin on skin had been the only kind of physical contact you'd ever longed for. It still shocked you, sometimes, when North's palm would curve and envelope around your shoulder in hearty greeting. He radiated warmth right through your sweatshirt, flashed it in every grin. The pinpricks of almost painful heat from Tooth's slender fingers poking around your mouth always left you dazed with an imprint of bright tropical feathers on your corneas, humming wings in your ears, and a keen feeling of being invaded. You thought the sensation of fur on skin would be nothing compared to that of skin against skin. You were dead _wrong_. You don't think you knew the real meaning of teasing until you felt those smooth furs everywhere against you, hiding firm warmth in a shroud of ticking softness. It makes you want to dig your fingers in and never let go.

One of his paws cradles against your cheek and heat blooms instantly at the contact. The pads of Bunny's paws are more velvety and cooler than a normal human's, but still so much warmer than your own core temperature that the touch makes you squirm even as you lean into it. It fans over your cheek and temple. A blunted claw scrapes down to tug at the corner of your mouth. Without thinking you open your mouth and tip your head to let the nail scrape into your mouth. His digit flexes and makes the nail drag against your tongue in a way that pulls a moan from your throat. The short fur of his hair doesn't bother you. The texture of it intrigues you as you dip your tongue into the crescent curve of his claw, feel the pinprick of its point dig into your flesh. The way Bunny looks at you reminds you of the way he looked at you back during the Easter egg hunt. His eyes are on you as if you were a spectacle to behold, as if you were the only thing worth looking at. You swirl your tongue and smile just slightly. Luckily neither of you are fans of beds, and a roll in the hay sounds like a very, very good way to pass some time…

But of course Bunny has a completely different idea.

When he pulls away you can't help the way your eyes blink wide open because, really? Easter was over and you have all the time in the world now! Your incredulity only increases as you follow him to the den where, lo and behold, there were splatters of paint and oils and hallowed out eggshells waiting to be decorated.

"C'mon, Bunny." You groan impatiently, feeling warm all over. You can still taste the blunt edge of his nail in the center of your tongue as you speak. "One day."

"Right after I get this idea down." He says, voice rough. He clears his throat and you know he must have been just as affected as you were. Large strides lead him to a comically tiny stool. The Pooka perches on it like master and spends the next few moments staring so hard at a mess of pigments that you're surprised they don't explode right there on the spot.

"Your ideas take forever."

"Art is art, mate."

"One day, Bunny." You try again, collapsing against his back with a soft whump that makes him fall forward a little. His ears flatten just a little and you're glad he didn't have a paintbrush in his hand. That would usually earn you a quick ticket out of the Guardian's home. "One itty, bitty day. You won't break me."

"Will you quit squirming around like that?"

"Why? Am I distracting you?" You say lowly in a way that you hope is attractive and distracting.

"What?" He just sounds distracted as he picks up a thin brush.

"Nothing." You grumble and come up to stand behind him to bury your nose into the crook of his neck and shoulder. Your hands rest high on his torso, cupping at warm fur and ribcage. When you exhale quick and frustrated, frost particles flutter and collect on the fur ticking at your lips. You blow a little more slowly just to watch the sparkle of frost spread across blue tinted fur. The paintbrush grasped in Bunny's paw stills and hovers mere centimeters above a blank eggshell. You feel him shiver and for a moment you stop breathing. Stop completely, because it's not like you have to anyway. There's absolute silence, thick and wanting, and you tread it like glass. Your hands move down to splay at his narrow waist, petting at short silky fur. You turn your nose in to the nape of his neck. You're hyper aware of the frost chilling on your cheeks and the steady rise and fall of Bunny's chest.

"Aster," You breathe, barely a whisper.

You want to say how much you want this. You want to say that you're not a child and that you stopped being a child all those decades ago when the ice cracked beneath your feet and water froze up your heart. His patience is absolutely _infuriating_ even if the courtship is a sweet, agonizingly protracted affair. You want to be touched. God, you want to say that you've seen rabbits mate before with all the time you've spent in forests. Suddenly the image of it comes unbidden to your mind, and now all you can think of is Bunny pounding into you over and over again with that same carnal intent you see in the wildlife. You want those claws scraping down your chest and digging pinpricks into the tops of your thighs. You want his teeth and the softness of his paws and the deep sound of his voice. All you can feel is his heat pressed up against you, his back resting firmly against your front, sapping the cold straight from your body. You're warmer than you have been for a while – warm and almost sluggish in a way that would usually have you propelling yourself into the nearest snow drift. But right now you like it. You really, really like it.

But then Bunny shudders, his whiskers twitch madly, the paintbrush comes to life once more, and you inhale again – the spell broken.

"Oh my god," You groan partially from your imaginings and partially from pure frustration. "I make ice, I'm not made of it."

Your last hurrah merely earns a laughs as Bunny picks up another eggshell.

"We'll see about that, mate."

It's enough of a promise for now.


End file.
